


#IBELIEVEINSHERLOCK

by beautifullyheeled



Series: Verehren [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anderson's POV, Developing Friendships, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Guilt, Hero Worship, Nostalgia, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, One-Sided Attraction, Survivor Guilt, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-27
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-01-13 22:58:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1243708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautifullyheeled/pseuds/beautifullyheeled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9B-h1EEsKDA Teardrop by Jose Gonzalez</p>
        </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_#IBELIEVEINSHERLOCK_

It had started small. He’d left a post in the phone box, something harmless that could easily removed, at St. Bart’s about six weeks after Sherlock’s fall. Reichenbach. How appropriate. The sick bastard, God the man who was once Moriarty was terrifyingly brilliant. It made him wonder if that was how Sherlock might have turned out if he hadn’t chosen to solve mysteries and do those damned weird experiments.

_Reichenbach; the case that thrust him into the spotlight. Also ties to Moriarty._

He’d taken the information to John, who had thanked him. They had come to a tenuous friendship over the past few weeks as they began sifting together to correct the tide before it became rooted in public memory. Sally had taken leave and had begun trying to piece it all together as well. She apologised to John for her comments to them both the night before. The way she had followed a hunch and then felt vindicated as Sherlock had not even tried to fight them.

Then he had taken John hostage, made him a fugitive. She felt awful about that. Awful for the court dates he faced, the drudging up of his involvement and looking into of his licensing. Awful about Sherlock’s death, though she took a step back once she began seeing the reverse image in the Mastermind of their once resident Madman.

_#IBELIEVEINSHERLOCK_

The next time had been actual graffiti. He wasn’t proud of it, but he was fed up with the bloody idiot Commissioner who was now, suddenly retiring. The chalk would come off in the wash, but it was satisfying to see the bright yellow of that maniacal shot-out smiley-face on the Commissioner’s windows.

Late that night, he met up with one of Sherlock’s old contacts, a kid by the name of Raz.

At four months past Sherlock’s death, you could see it in posts to spray paint in that same yellow all over Sherlock’s once beloved city. Six months found it all over the United Kingdom. Ten months pictures of sightings of the hashtag had hit the internet and his newly formed website.

People began pouring in stories of how they had emailed the Science of Deduction and how he’d solved the query without even meeting the persons involved, or had asked for only the minimal information. Some of them were quite fantastic.

_#IBELIEVEINSHERLOCK_

At one year, he and John were solid friends. He was constantly on the Met to clear Sherlock’s name on the books as they had off of them. He’d met the insufferable brother after a kidnapping gone awry. How the man figured an officer wouldn’t be capable in defending themselves was inconceivable. Still, neither were very harmed and he’d finally been given the audio with strict instruction to not allow it to the press or his superiors.

He was just happy to finally have it back.

On the anniversary for Sherlock’s murder, Phillip dressed in his best suit and headed out for the day. He stopped at the florists and smiled sadly as he explained the flowers were for an old friend he’d not seen in a while. Truth be told he’d not been there in three months, he’d been so busy with trying to fight to clear Sherlock and keep his position.

“Missed you, you insufferable madman.” He spoke quietly to the ebon marble that still shone as if polished to new every morning. “I know what you did. Why you did it…” His voice caught at the emotions he had felt for the last few days. “I’ll thank you, because they aren’t to know… because they can’t yet.” With heavy heart he laid the calla lilies at the foot of the stone, their perfect white curve and still vibrancy a stark contrast to the cold depths of the marker they laid against.

“And what weren’t we to know?” The restrained tenor of the voice behind him asked as the smaller hand cupped his shoulder. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9B-h1EEsKDA Teardrop by Jose Gonzalez


	2. Chapter 2

He turned just enough to look over his shoulder to catch the same resolved look that had graced his own features not just an hour ago. Philip knew, he knew John had overheard. But this was John. And the pathologist trusted the short blond with his life. They’d begun a different type of war on a familiarly paved battlefield. That’s what the other Holmes had said... about walking, no wading through what felt like hip-height bureaucracy; the red-tape coiling around them like the rivulets that had already been spilt by a great man. Unrelenting. 

The people in their path had another thing coming.

“John.” The smile was laced with anguish, more then he wanted to show. “I’ll leave you to it a moment... then we’ll get smashed okay. I... well you know how I feel about the other one, but I think he’s right in not telling things... well out here. You know?”

Hallowed ground. Their personal altar they laid their hearts at. Anderson knew the recently reinstated surgeon needed this more than he... John was the one with all of the claim. Philip was only a recent convert in the religion of The Work and Sher- the madman’s science of deduction. It was pure art. The marriage of science and observation. Brilliance. It had been two nights and days of reading before he had banged into the Baker flat and went raving for almost an hour about it all. At the end of it, it had been John plying scotch then later tea into his hands; the words full of forgiveness and bracketed with sadness as they’d gone over past cases.

“Sure. Yes, um, well a moment... please... then.” The smile was warm even though Philip heard the steel in the ex- captain’s voice. “To Baker... after.”

“Sure, John.”

~

The cab took them to Baker in quiet contemplation. John simply paid the fare and then nodded to Philip once before alighting and stiffly opening the dark door that led to John’s flat. It still rubbed him the wrong way to think of it that way. Sherlock still breathed in the space; still could be felt. He wondered if it were possible that the posh idiot had found a way to haunt the place. If there was anyone, it would be him. 

He half-chuckled at this thought, John looking over to him and catching the eye roll and hand motions, knew that Anderson had meant all of it. All of this. All of _him_. 

“So we are clear here still?” Anderson had to ask. He didn’t want to... well see any more harm done. Not just to him; no to John. Greg. Emma... that doddering landlady in the flat just below. 

“Super green.” John forced a chuckle at the movie reference. Their last night wading through everything, The Fifth Element had been playing in the background for hours. “Honestly, it’s not being- well we can speak here.”

“Had a run in with the other Holmes.” Best to it then. “He, well it was interesting... I, well I heard everything, John. From- look you’re not to know, no one is. There are reasons, god how _wrong_ he was... and when was the last time I said that? When? Ages, John. Ages. He shouldn’t have... we could have and then... Lord have mercy on our souls...” 

The words just tumbled out of him. He knew that he was stumbling over them as if he were trying to impress the Madman, to show him he did listen, he just did not appreciate the methods. It wasn’t safe... God how he had-

“John, you’ve got to listen... I, well, _IKNOWWHY_.” Philip stage whispered after a hard pull from the bottle in his fingers. “He, he very well gave his life up for... for... all of you. You can’t change it, I wish he’d well anything other then what he did. He’d have been cleared... look how much headway we’ve actually made... and the blood on the roof... it just... it explains everything.”

The sturdy blond had set before him on the couch; listened to him slowly unravel. He was going slowly mad. That was it then. Anderson flopped down on the opposite end.

“You, you heard... Mycroft? He has Sherlock’s- of course he does. Philip, whatever it is, look mate, you know how I felt about him. I just want to know. Was it- not just- was it coerced?”

“Moriarty, John. It’s all bloody-damned-Moriarty.” He shook his head. “Traded his for three lives. People he’d, well loved I suppose.”

“Oh.”John exhaled. The spark in those cobalt eyes was coldfire that ran turned Philip’s blood cold. This was the soldier. “I need- just a moment.” They both downed their glasses, John’s left shaking as he poured them both another. “Do I need to ask who?”

“You know, why ask? It’s all there. We just need to figure out how to use it. It’s a year too late, but we can finally lay Sherlock Holmes’ legacy to rest.”

They plotted late into the night, ordering take-away and pulling out maps (and paper clippings and pictures) just to pin them to the wall to reconstruct the last three days of Sherlock’s life. Philip called Molly, she said she couldn’t talk about it... still too fresh even twelve months on. 

Just as well. He’d pulled the reports from Bart’s himself and John pinned the copies against the door before going over them with a fine toothed comb. “Wait- Philip. If there isn’t a threat anymore, then why are you supposed to remain quiet about it all? Why do we have to be clandestine about this? Why not just walk it into the newly minted CDI’s office?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zGcPJooXT1o The Lightning Strike by Snow Patrol


	3. Chapter 3

Greg shuffled the box in his hands. He wondered again if he should have just tossed it all as rubbish, but he had to be honest, he couldn’t bring himself to. So here he was, on the doorstep of Baker Street, one medium crumpled box and beer to go along with it. The CDI buzzed and Mrs. Hudson let him in going on about packing and her upcoming trip to the country before shooing him upstairs with John. This made Greg chuckle as he elbowed John’s door and came into the parlor before coming to a dead halt.

“What is all of... this?” Lestrade half- dropped the box where he stood, catching himself and turning more cautious with his movements placed it at his feet. Then the beers. Oh God would he need scotch. The beer could go to Hell. “John... Philip?!”

“There’s been a break from a source. We have audio, Greg. It was lifted off of Sherlock’s mobile.”

“Oh Mary, mother of Grace! You can’t be serious?” He wiped his hands over his face looking at all of the notes and old photos and maps that had... different colour strings? “You mean it’s actual? John I mean it... this can’t be from a homeless network person or Anderson... not from one of your... idealists, yea?”

“Actually, Greg, it was given to me. By someone who we can’t say... but I know you’ll want to hear it.”

Philip was grim faced as he crossed to John and placed a hand on his shoulder in support. They’d been over this for a month now. Started the Irregulars as they were calling themselves, thanks to Raz. That upstart. A steady thin line of information as fine as a hair had begun coming to them. It was wearing on John, but his friend seemed more alive then he had in the little less than thirteen months since the detective had passed. 

“Not one of the groupies, John please-”

“Greg, it’s someone who wouldn’t lie.” John’s face set itself to a neutral position. “Well I can hope he wouldn’t... Look, it’s Sherlock’s mobile and a clean lift of the audio. Anyways mate, what’s that and the beers for?”

Lestrade blinked a few times. Had he really forgotten?

“John, it’s your birthday... I dunno. I was cleaning, finishing the move to my new office and came across some things of his... maybe this was silly.” 

“Oh, God. It is. Well, yea, um sure. Just been so wrapped up in... what’s in the box again?”

“Look, I’ll call for Chinese and take this box into the kitchen, okay? You can play the file for Greg? Give him the earbuds?”

The doctor picked up the box without another word and then remembered the beers. Things in hand he placed them on the table and closed the pocket glass fronted doors to the kitchen before opening the cardboard Pandora’s box. He wasted a few seconds placing the beers one at a time into the refrigerator, listening for the other men’s voices. They were murmuring quiet tones intermittently. Still listening then. 

“Yes, fine.” John spoke the words to the empty kitchen as he unfolded the top of the box. 

He chuckled to himself as he began rummaging through it all. Before he knew it he was smiling as he recalled the most minute things from these left over dregs of his former life. John could hear Sherlock clearly still, in his head. His ‘Bungalow’. His fingers ran across a thin hard case as he was shuffling through it all. The date was - oh. Right. The surgeon pulled the dvd out with steady fingers and walked towards his room, putting it on the bedside for later.

That stupid video...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9wcDrbapUiU Sugar by Tori Amos


	4. Chapter 4

He was cold. Starved. He’d had water... recently. 

He had to run. It had worked. Almost all of it before this last bit. 

The long lanky curls limpy lay over his face as he bowed his head, resting his chin against his fingertips. Prayer. How naive. Banal. But John had done. It had brought him back to London. Into Sherlock’s life, had it not?

So, he prayed. 

He’d killed. His mind bringing up the acrid tang of bile and viscous stench of exposed entrails and slashed throats that mawed at him in his nightmares. They were an almost endless parade. Then, though, when he woke, he would focus on soft woollen jumpers and tea made too sweet in the early morning to entice him to drink. Of London in the rain, a small of stature man beside him keeping pace as they ran against the night sky of the city they both loved. 

“Please, please; just let me see John. Just once more.”

Later that night, Sherlock knew he’d be caught. He was weak. It was his fault. Thrown in a cell... so very cold here underground. The thin blanket and pallet his only comfort now. Far cry from jam and toast and music and John’s voice. Always so calm. Even angry, he had a certain melodic cadence. What he wouldn’t give to hear it now. Not in his halls in his palace, no here and now. To have those hands tend to his legs and back. His wrenched muscles. The latticework of welts and abraded skin. It would always be taut. Even if it healed. If he lived. 

He’d tell John. 

If he lived. 

He would.

How long? A fortnight... no more. Had to be more. A new voice. Reminded him of someone... he despised? Had he had trade with this... man before? New torturer too. One that was brought to finish the job. Sleep. Yes, sleep sounded good... his body was too frail to take him away from this place now. John had buried him years ago now. Cold hard ground is where he would be. Then, he caught it. The whif of embalming fluid... the scent of that odd local bark. His voice cracked during his deductions, but he got a physical reprieve. Now it was only he and the... official.

Then he knew who the man was. Not the name, but the body. The physical person his brain dredged for a name... there was only John and London and then- 

“Mycroft.”


End file.
